


Equate

by antiquitea



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:26:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antiquitea/pseuds/antiquitea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nixon thinks about an attic Haguenau often. Apparently Winters does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equate

**_January, 1946_ **

He moved languidly, almost exhaustedly, through a room containing a vast amount of books that he would never read, nor would ever care to. Tucked under his arm was an unopened bottle of whiskey, which he knew would not remain in such a state for much longer. A dull ache slowly permeated its way through his body, something that had lingered within his bones for years. To inform one of the exact date when it began weaving its way through his body, he could not do. However, he always linked it back to Bastogne, and the biting cold that he hadn't been able to shake until months after they had left the line. His shoulders felt tense, and no amount of rolling them or stretching his arms above his head provided any sort of relief.

The force with which he set the bottle down on the bar caused the empty glasses on it to jingle louder than he anticipated, and Lewis Nixon winced slightly. He heard the fall of familiar footsteps finding their way into the library, or den, or whatever the hell room he occupied was supposed to be referred to as. Nixon pretended to pay no mind to the footsteps that drew closer and then ultimately stopped by a leather chair that was frequently occupied by someone other than himself. He poured himself a glass, and momentarily hesitated, before bringing the half-filled tumbler to his lips and letting the warm liquid burn its way down his throat.

He picked at a chip in the rim of the glass that he had never noticed before, and rolled his shoulders again in a vein attempt to achieve muscles void of the ache that he was carrying with him. Standing behind him, Dick Winters coughed once, and he couldn't fully press his finger on whether it had been intentional to get him to finally turn around, or of the natural type that just sort of happened. Nixon was slow to acknowledge.

"You let yourself in again, I see," he said simply, fingers dancing along the bottle, contemplating a second glass.

"Door was open," Dick said in response, leaning against the leather chair. He glanced down toward its cushion, momentarily pondering its comfort before ultimately deciding against it. "You didn't answer when I knocked."

Lewis made a bitter sounding noise, grabbing the bottle and the tumbler and turning around. "Giving one the impression that maybe, just maybe, I wanted to be left alone." Lewis stomped toward the chair that Dick towered over and slumped down into it, setting the bottle onto his lap, the tumbler onto the arm of the chair. He stared across the room at volumes of literature bound in leather for a moment, before glancing up at Dick. He was not surprised to see the other man's eyes on him already. "I expected you to stay away a little longer to be honest," Nixon muttered.

Dick's fingers clenched in the soft leather briefly, before letting go and turning his head, avoiding Nixon's eyes and moving away from the chair. Lewis watched him move a couple of paces away, arms at his sides, so unsure of himself and so uncharacteristic of himself. The ripples in the pond, the ramifications of Lewis' actions a few evenings previous were obviously still a sore spot with Winters, but not to the point where he hadn't wanted to address the issue. Nixon poured himself another glass and averted his eyes when Dick turned back to look at him; the exchange of glances seemed far too intimate at that moment.

Lewis would have given anything to be afforded the courage to look his friend in the eyes and say something worthy of saying. All eloquence had escaped him recently in the presence of Dick Winters, and he was little more than a man of words that only needed to be said out of absolute necessity. Nixon couldn't recall a time in his life when anything had been so absolute, nor a time when he had been so absolutely _fucked_.

"Are we ever going to talk about it?" Lewis finally ventured just as Dick's eyes returned to the vast bookshelves.

"Yeah," he replied, and then repeated himself, sounding a bit more certain. "Yeah. That's why I came over."

Nixon stretched out his leg, kicking at the matching chair to the one that he had occupied until he was able to push it into Dick's direction. Dick tentatively glanced at the chair, as he had originally with the one that Lewis had been sitting in, before moving into it.

"Well," Lewis began with a rueful smile, setting the bottle of Vat 69 onto the floor by his feet, "start talking, Major."

**_March, 1945_ **

A lack of noise was not something that they had become accustomed to in recent years. In fact, silence was rarely considered a good thing; nothing should ever be so quiet. The stillness of the air only reaffirmed one's belief that German soldiers were too close for comfort. So, for one to be worried about the sudden clamoring of a typewriter to the floor in some dusty attic was meaningless, as it had been far too quiet beforehand.

Silence was never a good thing.

And that is perhaps why Lewis couldn't have possibly given less of a damn about the typewriter that had fallen on the floor. Except, perhaps, when Dick had almost angrily muttered something about reports that he couldn't write (but hated writing so Nixon didn't understand what the goddamn problem was), against the strangely warm and unfamiliar heat of his friend's mouth.

Heat that Lewis particularly craved at the moment. In Haguenau, he could still see his breath hanging in the air, but it paled in comparison to the hellish conditions of Bastogne. He recalled muttering on Christmas Eve how there was snow in his foxhole, to nobody in particular, only to have Winters offer a smile that only he could in such conditions and say, "There's snow in everyone's foxhole."

Warmth was a commodity that they had not been afforded since early December, and Nixon was determined to find it everywhere that he could; the heat radiating off of his friend's body and within the depths of his mouth seemed like a good place to start. Much to his dismay however, Dick was still mumbling about the typewriter on the floor, hands gripping at Nixon's forearms. Lewis finally relented, drawing back only to have Dick grab him by the back of the head and pull him closer again.

"What about the typewriter?" Lewis asked, the force of their combined weight causing the desk to move back, legs scraping against dusty wooden floor.

"Forget about the typewriter," Dick had insisted, eyes drifting to a phantom scar that may or may not have ever existed on Lewis' forehead. He paused and then finally exhaled, as if he had been holding his breath for far too long. "Lew, what are we doing?"

Lewis was disappointed that he had asked; he wasn't entirely certain himself, and was hoping it would not have been brought up. All he was certain of was that in that moment he could not fathom _not_ kissing his best friend, not pushing him against the edge of the desk. Of course, the action had caught Winters off guard, causing his hands to reach back, to brace himself, only to knock the typewriter off of the desk and onto the floor. Kissing Dick, it had seemed like the most natural thing in the world to do, and even more so, it had felt like it.

So Nixon didn't answer – couldn't answer – and instead pressed forward again. Dick tentatively drew back, and Lewis knew he had no right to feel an iota of disappointment. Fingers curling into Lewis' arms again, Dick leaned forward, and in an equally tentative fashion brushed his lips against his friend's.

Lewis smiled against Dick's mouth, and in that moment, completely forgot about the war.

Somewhere in the distance, although still far too close for comfort, the sound of German artillery echoed through the four walls around them. Winters gasped into Lewis' mouth, and with hands pressed against his chest pushed him away. Nixon took no offence to the gesture, it was done so methodical, instant, and in a way that was nothing short of respectful. He watched momentarily dumbfounded as Dick grabbed his helmet then headed down the stairs, only to be shocked back into reality that yes, he needed to go as well.

Nixon felt that he would forever remember that day in Haguenau on March 9, 1945. Neither of them spoke a word about it the remainder of that day, or the next day, or even the following week. Nothing was said when the war ended in May of that year, or even afterward when Dick arrived back stateside and took Lewis up on his job offer in New Jersey.

Not a damn word.

**_January, 1946_ **

He'd given up on words before he had even begun using them; the things he wanted to say were twisted and jumbled in his brain, and he though it better to just not say anything at all. He thought of perhaps attributing it to the drink, but thought better of that; he was useless with words regardless if there was whiskey present or not.

Dick hadn't said much of anything, just how "over there" it had seemed to "make sense."

"But here?" he said, raising his eyebrows as he looked at Nixon, who seemed to be all but melting into his chair. "I don't know, Nix. It's not the same."

 _Clearly at the given moment words were not Dick's strong point either,_ Lewis thought, sitting up a bit more straight. He both knew what Dick was talking about and then not at all. Lewis knew what he was alluding to, but at the same time his mind boggled because the rationale and the reasoning that were so very much a Richard Winters sort of thing were just not there.

"How is it not the same?" Lewis asked, furrowing his brow. Dick opened his mouth to speak, but Lewis interrupted him. "No, honestly. Don't just tell me that it doesn't make any sense because we're stateside. We danced around each other long before we ever set foot on European soil."

Winters sighed, looking at the floor before looking back up at Nixon, and looking utterly defeated. "Lew, here everything is real. Certainly not to say that anything over there was less real, but everything about it was so completely foreign. _That_ was one of the many things I left behind, and to be truthful, something I'd not planned on thinking of or mentioning again."

Nixon wanted to tell Dick that not for a moment did he believe that horseshit, but thought better of it. To say that he hadn't thought about it, or never planned to, was absurd. Lewis couldn't count on his fingers how many times he'd replayed that moment in an attic in Haguenau over and over again until he'd convinced himself that it must not have happened at all. And the lie was written all over Dick's face; there was no way he hadn't ever thought about it.

"So," Lewis began, quelling his urge to pour another drink, "it makes sense to kiss you in enemy territory, but not for a moment does it make sense for me to kiss you in my home."

Dick's face reddened, and Lewis also refused to believe that his friend had not given thought to the events a few nights previous.

#

It had been an evening like most others since Dick had arrived in New Jersey, consisting of attempting (or successfully) making something passable for dinner, spending a few hours in whatever room Nixon felt able to tolerate that day drinking (black coffee for Dick) until they ultimately called it a night. Sitting in the library, or den, or whatever the hell room they occupied was supposed to be referred to as, Lewis watched as Winters read the spines of the books lining the walls. It was a simple thing, but something about the moment made Lewis feel embarrassingly breathless.

Dick stood with his back straight, something that Lewis was certain he always did, but had never really noticed until their time in Toccoa, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, empty coffee cup dangling from his fingers. Ever present as his impeccable posture was the shock of red hair, which at that moment was framed against the volumes of Hemmingway, Shakespeare, Twain bound in dark leathers.

Lewis had never stopped thinking about Haguenau, but he'd never felt more compelled to bring it up, or want to have it happen again as much as he had at that moment in time.

Setting the half-filled glass of whiskey onto the table beside his chair, Lewis stood and walked toward Dick, no action plan in mind, without the faintest idea of what he even wanted to do. At the very least, standing next to his friend seemed like the most natural thing to do.

"Do you ever read any of these?" Dick was asking as Lewis came to stand next to him.

"Not really," Lewis replied, scratching at his scalp. "They're here primarily for decoration as far as I'm concerned. Stanhope thought a library or den should be something that I would have in my home." Dick nodded, and turned his attention back toward the books. Lewis sighed and averted his eyes to the carpet which he absolutely detested. "Dick, do you ever think about Haguenau?"

Seeming to be taken aback by the question, Dick took a moment to respond. "Yeah. Sometimes. I don't really try to think too much about it. But sometimes I suppose I do."

Lewis knew he wasn't talking about the attic. "Right." Dick was still reading the spines of the books, when Lewis found the gumption to say, "I was talking about the attic, Dick."

Winters pursed his lips tightly together and sighed. "Lew, so was I."

Not certain how he was supposed to react, Lewis decided that it would be best that he not react at all. Instead, he grabbed Dick by the arm and pulled himself closer to the other man. With little to no thought (and enough drink to reduce his nerves to nothing), Lewis pressed his friend back against the volumes of unread books and kissed him fiercely, the sort that burned and stung in various places, least of all the mouth. Dick did nothing that Lewis hadn't expected – he muttered about the coffee cup which had ended up on the floor, and tangled one hand in Lewis' hair while the other gripped at a bookshelf to steady himself.

It felt better than Haguenau, and better than most things Nixon had ever experienced in his life.

Which is why when moments later, after Dick had suddenly pushed him away, gazed at him a moment, and walked away like his legs couldn't get him out that room any faster, Lewis stood standing alone in the den perplexed to a degree which he had not anticipated.

He pretended not to care one bit when heard Dick rush out of the house, the front door closing loudly behind him, although he had no clue who he was putting up a front for. Lewis reached for the half-filled glass of whiskey and polished it off in one swig, then spent the next hour and twenty-eight minutes drinking as much of the Vat 69 that he could before feeling ill, and continued until he did.

**_June, 1942_ **

"Dick, we've been friends for how long?"

There were few things that Lewis looked forward to more during his officer training at Fort Benning than an evening away from the training, in whatever bar or cinema he happened to find himself in. Regardless of Dick's desire to not drink a damn thing in his lifetime (or so it seemed), Lewis was content to drag his friend to the bars with him, and Dick was content to go with him.

"A couple of months," Dick replied, elbows up on the bar. The bartender had raised an eyebrow when Dick had said he would have nothing after Lewis ordered a whiskey. "Why do you ask?"

"I believe we've discussed just about everything aside from the fact that you are apparently willing to jump out of a perfectly good airplane," Lewis replied, downing the rest of his whiskey and signaling to the bartender for another one.

Dick chuckled, blunt fingernails picking at splinters of wood protruding out of the bar. "There's a different breed of soldier in the paratroops, Nix," he said. "There's a wealth of training, a degree to which I don't think you're likely to get elsewhere. What it comes down to is that I want to be certain, without a doubt, that whoever is standing next to me is one of the best soldiers in the US Military."

Lewis, apparently happy with that answer, nodded and looked thoughtful. A full glass of whiskey found itself in front of him, and Dick was asked yet again, if he was certain that he didn't want anything to drink.

"Fine," was all that Lewis said, finger dancing around the rim of the glass. Winters raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Fine, I'll join the paratroopers with you. Don't look at me like that. I'm not letting you jump out of a perfectly good airplane all by yourself."

**_January, 1946_ **

"It made it real."

Lewis had taken to pacing while Dick continued to occupy the chair, feet scuffing against carpet that Lewis hated. It had been silent for far too long, and for the first time in all the years that they had known each other, it had felt awkward, and Lewis hated it. When Winters finally broke the silence, Lewis was legitimately surprised for a reason that he could not place his finger on. Turning, Nixon raised an eyebrow and watched as Dick finally got out of the chair.

"It made it real, huh?" Lewis said in a non-committal sort of way.

Dick nodded, joining Lewis at the spot he was standing by the window. "Lew, a lot of things happened over there that I wish I could forget. And I did a lot of things that I hope that I never have to do again. Whenever I think about it, it doesn't seem entirely real. I know that it was, but it was all something so far removed from how life is, how life _should_ be, that thinking about it as a reality is onerous." Dick sighed, glancing at Lewis for a moment before turning his eyes back to the window. "Something that happened over there happening here solidifies that everything that did happen over there was real – very real. And its not that I can't believe that it all happened, its that sometimes I don't want to."

"Dick, you're confusing the hell out of me here," Nixon said, shaking his head. "Are you equating me _kissing you_ to war?"

"I'm equating the time and place in which it occurred to be the same time and place during which a war occurred," Dick replied. He sighed loudly, visibly frustrated, although Lewis couldn't tell if it was with himself or otherwise. "I feel wrong deriving any sort of happiness or joy from that time, Lew."

That, Lewis understood.

He hoped that Dick hadn't noticed the way his body had trembled as he brushed his fingertips against the back of Lewis' hand, or how his breath shuddered out of him. It seemed to Nixon that he had done it all wrong in the past; he'd never experienced it this way the few nights before or in Haguenau. His stomach was in a series of uncomfortable knots as Dick grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from the window, and almost into the shadows where the light from the lamp didn't quite reach. Dick placed his hands on Lewis' shoulders, and pressed his back against the wall, closing the space between them with a veil of grace that thinly covered trembling breath and tattered nerves.

He'd been doing it all wrong, somehow. Dick's mouth on his had never felt more real. Warmth that he had desperately craved in Haguenau, truth he had wanted nights ago – it was all right there, quantified still in the slow and tentative way that his friend's lips found his. There were various degrees of wanting that Lewis had experienced in their time knowing one another, but none had ever felt this way. Perhaps the secret of which had never lain with Lewis, but with knowing that yes, Dick had experienced want, lust, and perhaps even love as well.

There was no perhaps about it; Lewis Nixon would be the first person to admit to the world, if asked (and perhaps even not asked), that he loved Richard Winters.

The dull ache which always slowly permeated its way through his body felt relaxed, no longer a binding of muscles and an annoyance to be dealt with. Nothing could have been further from Nixon's mind at that moment in his life. Lewis gasped as Dick's mouth found his jaw, and hands found his shirt and tugged until his shirt tails were free from his trousers. He'd nearly come undone at the way Dick had whispered "Lew," and pressed against him.

Lewis had whispered obscenities as Dick's hands worked open his trousers in a way that would have led Lewis to believe that he'd done this before, only he knew that he hadn't. Trembling with anticipation, Nixon grabbed at Dick's shoulder, feeling foolish standing there with his back against the wall, in a state of undress, Dick fully clothed.

As Dick's hand wrapped around him, his lips were drowning out Lewis' moans, which he was immensely thankful for, as he sounded more foolish than he felt. Foreheads pressed together, Nixon whined and tilted his hips forward, wanting little more than to stay in that moment for longer than he knew he was capable of. He whispered "Fuck," once or twice, and Dick had chuckled and Lewis kind of hated him, but only briefly.

There was little space between them, save for at the necessary junctures where there bodies would have met to allow movement of Dick's hand. Lewis could feel the thrumming of Dick's heart against his chest, through all of the layers of clothing, flesh, muscle and bone, could hear his erratic breathing as he pressed his mouth against the hallow of Lewis' throat. Grabbing at Dick's free hand, Lewis laced their fingers together, and squeezed tightly as he came, his best friend's name a mantra on his lips. Dick kissed him fiercely, breathless and spent himself, as Lewis fought to not slump against the wall, and allow gravity to drag him down to the floor.

Nothing had ever felt so real.

#

Lewis lit a cigarette as he stood barefoot in the kitchen, cold floors causing the chill to start at the soles of his feet and work its way up his body. He grumbled about the cold, and Dick stopped mid-sentence and laughed; something foolish about how he wanted his eggs.

"Never heard you complain about the cold since Bastogne," Dick said, turning toward the stove. "I would have assumed that all other forms of cold would pale in comparison."

"Some red-headed asshole saw fit to steal my robe after I extended him the courtesy of sharing my bed," Nixon said after a pull from his cigarette. "I've yet to decide whether or not this is worse than having snow in my foxhole."

Dick smiled but didn't say anything, and simply commenced cracking eggs into a frying pan. Lewis continued smoking his cigarette and fighting the urge to remain grinning like an idiot for the remainder of the day, as it was rather difficult to pretend to be furious about a robe and the cold with a wide grin spread across one's face.

"You're not mad about the robe," Dick said, as Lewis advanced across the kitchen to the stove and stood next to him.

Lewis blew smoke out the corner of his mouth, away from Dick's face, and smiled as he looked out the window. It was all natural, and completely real. Nixon placed his hand on top of Dick's, squeezing and thinking that perhaps he might not let go unless he absolutely had to.

"I'm not mad about a damn thing."


End file.
